Bend Over
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ FraMano Oneshots ]] "And then—" "Bend over," Francis interrupted, turning a page and watching Lovino put his hands on his hips. "Excuse me?" Lovino faced Francis, gardening apron stained with dirt. His gloves—covered in a delightful pattern of roses—were stuffed into his back pocket. The man claimed that he couldn't garden right unless he could feel the plant.
1. Bend Over

It was a glorious day. The sun streamed through the leaves and bathed the garden in a soothing green. Francis lounged on his blanket, flipping the pages of his book. However, this day would not be complete without Lovino's ranting.

"And _then_ —"

"Bend over," Francis interrupted, turning a page and watching Lovino put his hands on his hips.

"Excuse me?"

Lovino faced Francis, gardening apron stained with dirt. His gloves—covered in a delightful pattern of roses—were stuffed into his back pocket. The man claimed that he couldn't garden right unless he could feel the plant. The sunhat had blown off long ago, accompanied by swearing.

"Just do it," Francis sighed. A smile crept across his face as he watched Lovino's expression.

"Fine," he spat, bending down.

"Look between your legs."

Lovino craned his neck, looking up at Francis. His mouth was open in mock disgust. "You're such a pervert. Put a shirt on. Put some _pants_ on." He nearly fell backwards into the garden.

Francis laughed, putting his book down and turning his full attention to Lovino. "You know you love looking at me. I see you peaking looks over your shoulder."

Lovino rested his elbows against his knees, still bent over. He put his chin in his hand and frowned at Francis, shaking his head. "My full attention is on my plants. I have to make sure none of the fucking tomatoes roll away."

Francis waved his hands. "Look between your legs."

Lovino rolled his eyes and did as he was instructed. There was a few moments of silence as Lovino stood, swaying slightly in his awkward position. Then, he noticed.

"You son of a bitch!" He shouted, straightening and spinning around. He fell to his knees and disappeared into the leaves of the tomato plants, returning triumphantly with a wayward fruit. "Thought you could get away, you dick—"

"Really, dear," Francis murmured, opening his book to the dog-eared page, "Must you cruse so much?"

"It helps the plants," Lovino defended quickly, placing the tomato in the nearby basket. "Anyways, so the little fucker I was talking about earlier, he gives me this _look_ like it's _my_ fault he got a damned C. Not my problem he didn't understand fucking conjugations. They teach that in, what, the first _month_ of Italian."

"Is that the boy who switched into my class?"

The garden was suddenly ten degrees cooler.

Lovino pulled a weed violently out of the ground, throwing it aside. "'French and Italian are basically the same' my _ass_."

Francis laughed, abandoning his book once again to watch Lovino. The French teacher loved watching Lovino concentrate. Grading papers, weeding, cutting up vegetables—there was something so blissful in Lovino's furrowed brow. Lovino hated Francis' word, but he was _beautiful_.

Lovino sighed and wiped his forehead, looking up at the sky. It was almost too late in the year for this sort of day. The leaves on the trees were already turning color. The Italian fell back, sprawling in the grass and letting out a long sigh.

"Which plant should I save?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "You haven't picked one out already?"

Lovino struggled up onto one elbow, pointing at one of the plants. "I was thinking _that_ one, but it's a fucking bitch and needs more attention than a baby. But…"

Before Francis, Lovino's house was filled with plants over the winter. A second person in the house made it a bit cumbersome to have so many pots. After many months of debate, Lovino had moved most of them into the garden for the summer. He was only going to save the best of the bunch this fall.

Francis shook his head, watching Lovino debate internally.

"But there's that _other_ one," He rolled to his other side and pointed, "That isn't the best a producing, but it's just so friendly. It took root and even when those damn creepers came, it was like 'fuck that!''"

"Mm," Francis agreed.

Lovino collapsed onto his back, resting his hands behind his head. He lapsed into silence, crossing and uncrossing his legs. "Italian is just like French. Pft."

The garden was glorious and Lovino was beautiful.


	2. French Class

Francis prided himself of these sorts of things. He even went so far as to call himself the 'Master of Love.' How many times had he caught a passing, admiring look from the corner of his eye? How many men had he charmed until they agreed to go out for a drink? How many women had his number in their phones?

And yet, this had blindsided him.

Here he was, kissing Lovino. Kissing Lovino _back_.

Huh.

Lovino certainly hadn't picked up on Francis' radar. He had tried a couple of times, sure; the passing wink, a quick touch to the elbow, whispering so the Italian would have to lean closer. But Lovino had never reciprocated, so Francis had let the Italian be.

Oh, it seems as though Francis had pushed Lovino against the wall. And was still kissing him. If they didn't hurry, they would be late for their next class.

Now that Francis thought about it, there may have been hints. Lovino definitely cursed at him more than he normally did with others, but Francis figured that was because he let Lovino copy his French homework.

Francis mentally smacked himself. How had he missed that?

"Oi," Lovino had said from over him. "Did you do the paragraphs from last night? They were fucking hard."

Francis had given him a gracious smile, leaning forward on his desk. "They were not that hard. Not as hard as some things could be." Lovino had blushed—not out of anger, Francis realized belatedly.

Every day, Lovino asked to copy Francis' homework. There were a lot of paragraphs to translate; there was no possible way for Lovino to copy them all in the short break before French started. Because he had already _done_ them.

Lovino broke off from the kiss, panting. Francis stayed where he was, looking at Lovino's face, eyebrows furrowed. The Italian mumbled something in his own tongue, looking around the hallway.

"Fuck," Lovino said, looking over Francis' shoulder.

Francis craned his neck, raising an eyebrow at the boy standing there. "Would you like to join in, Arthur?"

Arthur hugged his books closer to his chest, moving away, muttering to himself. Francis turned his attention back to Lovino.

"I have to get back to class," Lovino said breathily, pushing by Francis and continuing down the hallway.

"Ah." Francis frowned. The Master of Love does not get tongue tied. "I look forward to seeing you in French," he called, watching the brunet's head duck around the corner.

Francis leaned against the wall, adjusting his uniform's tie. That was interesting. Of all the people… Francis was almost impressed. It's not very often someone _else_ initiates a make out. Francis ran his tongue over his lips. He would have to return the favor.

Unfortunately, that endeavor ended with a nervous Lovino ducking his head and hitting Francis in the jaw.


	3. Surprises

Francis prided himself of these sorts of things. He even went so far as to call himself the 'Master of Love.' How many times had he caught a passing, admiring look from the corner of his eye? How many men had he charmed until they agreed to go out for a drink? How many women had his number in their phones?

And yet, this had blindsided him.

Here he was, kissing Lovino. Kissing Lovino _back_.

Huh.

Lovino certainly hadn't picked up on Francis' radar. He had tried a couple of times, sure; the passing wink, a quick touch to the elbow, whispering so the Italian would have to lean closer. But Lovino had never reciprocated, so Francis had let the Italian be.

Oh, it seems as though Francis had pushed Lovino against the wall. And was still kissing him. If they didn't hurry, they would be late for their next class.

Now that Francis thought about it, there may have been hints. Lovino definitely cursed at him more than he normally did with others, but Francis figured that was because he let Lovino copy his French homework.

Francis mentally smacked himself. How had he missed that?

"Oi," Lovino had said from over him. "Did you do the paragraphs from last night? They were fucking hard."

Francis had given him a gracious smile, leaning forward on his desk. "They were not that hard. Not as hard as some things could be." Lovino had blushed—not out of anger, Francis realized belatedly.

Every day, Lovino asked to copy Francis' homework. There were a lot of paragraphs to translate; there was no possible way for Lovino to copy them all in the short break before French started. Because he had already _done_ them.

Lovino broke off from the kiss, panting. Francis stayed where he was, looking at Lovino's face, eyebrows furrowed. The Italian mumbled something in his own tongue, looking around the hallway.

"Fuck," Lovino said, looking over Francis' shoulder.

Francis craned his neck, raising an eyebrow at the boy standing there. "Would you like to join in, Arthur?"

Arthur hugged his books closer to his chest, moving away, muttering to himself. Francis turned his attention back to Lovino.

"I have to get back to class," Lovino said breathily, pushing by Francis and continuing down the hallway.

"Ah." Francis frowned. The Master of Love does not get tongue tied. "I look forward to seeing you in French," he called, watching the brunet's head duck around the corner.

Francis leaned against the wall, adjusting his uniform's tie. That was interesting. Of all the people… Francis was almost impressed. It's not very often someone _else_ initiates a make out. Francis ran his tongue over his lips. He would have to return the favor.

Unfortunately, that endeavor ended with a nervous Lovino ducking his head and hitting Francis in the jaw.


End file.
